


1 and 642 hundredths

by sweetestsight



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Soulmate-Identifying Timers, definitely the corniest thing I've ever written, it's just pure corn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-18 16:32:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18253640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetestsight/pseuds/sweetestsight
Summary: "It's not your fault.""No, you're right! It’s this destiny crap! I’m sick of it! Why should I have to follow some—”“Roger,” Brian tells him evenly, “if you throw that book out that window I’m never letting you in my apartment again.”Everyone has a timer on their wrist that starts counting the time they've spent with their soulmate from the moment they first touch. Roger has a soulmate. He also has excellent timing. It's luck that he seems to be lacking.





	1 and 642 hundredths

He throws the door to the building open hard enough that it collides with the bricks on the other side of the entryway. The glass quakes but he hardly even notices, just bangs into the mudroom and up the three flights of stairs. When he finally gets to the right door he doesn’t even bother knocking, just turns the knob then bangs that open too when it proves to be unlocked.

Brian looks up from his book with wide eyes. “Having a good day, are we, Roger?”

Roger responds by hurling his bookbag to the ground.

Brian, to his credit, barely even starts; he pulls his feet up onto the couch just in time to avoid the avalanche of notebooks and pencils that comes tumbling his way. “What’s this all about, then?”

“I’m tired of this fucking fate bullshit, that’s what!”

Brian blinks. “And you’re referring to…”

Roger grips the bottom of his left sleeve and dragging it up to his elbow, holding the inside of his wrist out for Brian to see.

Brian squints at it. “Point-six-four-two? You’ve got to admire their precision, at least. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone use milliseconds before.”

“That’s your takeaway from this?!” Roger yells.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t joke.”

“They were right fucking there and I didn’t even notice. I’ve never done something so stupid in my life.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, you’re right! It’s this destiny crap! I’m sick of it! Why should I have to follow some—”

“Roger,” Brian tells him evenly, “if you throw that book out that window I’m never letting you in my apartment again.”

Roger looks down. He’s holding one of Brian’s textbooks.

“Can I have that back?”

He takes a deep breath. Numbly, he hands it over.

“Thank you. Do you want to talk about this?”

He sits down on the armchair. Brian doesn’t speak, letting him take his time to think calm thoughts. Briefly he catches sight of his own wrist again.

_00:00:01.642_

One second. Six hundred and forty two milliseconds.

Christ.

“We must have just bumped into each other,” he says finally.

“Do you know where?”

He shakes his head. “It could’ve been anywhere. I’ve been walking around all day.”

“You’ll find them.”

Roger scoffs quietly. “Where the hell am I gonna find them? This is London. They could be anywhere.”

“Whoever they are, they have excellent timing. Right? Just like you.” Brian swallows. “It’s taken them this long. At the right time they’ll find you again.”

“Again with fate,” Roger says tiredly. “Seriously, I don’t know why people let these numbers control everything. You wait your whole life and then something like this happens. We could never see each other again.”

“You live in the same city.”

“We might not. They could just be a tourist or something.”

“If they are then I doubt they’ll be leaving town anytime soon.”

“They could. They could be one of those anti-soulmate types. They might run the minute they see we’ve met.”

“Then they’ll know where to find you when they’re ready.”

Roger gives him a long-suffering look. Of all people he didn’t think Brian would be one to argue in favor of fate over logic. “I never pegged you as a romantic.”

“Maybe you should’ve.”

“Mm.”

“Besides,” Brian says with a deep breath. “This has answered one question I’ve had for a while, in a roundabout sort of way.”

“What’s that?”

Brian turns his own arm over. The numbers stand out against the pallor of his skin in stark relief. _04:38:38._

Roger gapes for a moment, lost for words. “That’s great,” he says, quelling a wave of bitterness. “Brian, that’s great! Are you happy?”

“No,” Brian groans. “Roger, this is going to sound ridiculous but I thought it was you.”

Roger blinks. “…What?”

“It showed up yesterday,” he says, burying his face in his hands until all that’s visible of his head is a mound of curls. “I was trying to remember who I touched that night, you know? I thought maybe it was you—”

“We’ve touched loads of times before then, though,” Roger cuts in. “It couldn’t have been me.”

“That’s what I thought, too. This just confirmed that,” he adds, gesturing to Roger’s wrist. “Then I remembered. There’s really only one other person I touched, isn’t there?”

Realization dawns. Roger remembers the exact moment it happened simply because it had stood out to him as out of the ordinary: Brian had been frazzled, running late, and had cut through the bar they were playing at that night. He’d approached the stage from the wrong side and had simply climbed onto the ledge. Tim had helped him up.

Tim, who makes a point never to touch anyone.

“Oh,” he says.

Brian nods miserably. “The timer stopped right as we all parted ways, as best I can figure. I don’t know for sure but it adds up, doesn’t it? I mean obviously I’ll need to wait—”

“No, I understand where you’re coming from,” Roger says. “It’s not a sure thing but it’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it? You’ve never touched before, and now…”

“Yeah.”

They sit there in a depressed sort of silence for a long moment.

“Well, congratulations,” Roger says finally.

Brian snorts. “You, too. And good luck.”

“You as well. You’ll need it if you’re really destined to spend the rest of your life with Tim.”

That actually gets him a laugh and a wry smile, finally. “He’s not so bad.”

“You’d say that.”

“Shut up. I’m not sure it’s him.”

“You’ll know after practice tonight, won’t you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose I will.”

 

Roger hears him gasp from the shotgun seat of the van later that night, after they’ve left Tim to the short walk from the music building back to his own apartment. He turns his wrist in Roger’s direction as they pass under a streetlight, the orange glow illuminating his skin.

_07:56:16_

Roger tries not to be jealous of that. He really does.

He tries not to keep looking at his own wrist, because honestly just thinking about it makes him angry—how close he was to what’s supposed to be the perfect relationship, to the person who’s supposed to be his compliment in every way. It makes him sick and he keeps the numbers on his wrist hidden away as a result, half out of disgust and half out of some sort of hope that when he finally does look they’ll have changed.

They never do.  

_00:00:01.642_

“Whoever they are, they probably have a stick up their ass,” Roger says two weeks later.

Tim looks at him from across the booth. “Who?”

“My fucking soulmate or whatever.”

“Did you meet ‘em?”

Roger takes a sip of his beer and holds his arm out.

“God,” Tim gripes. “That’s shit luck, mate. I’m sorry.”

“Like I said. It’s probably for the best. They’re probably stuck up. Who counts in milliseconds?”

Tim squints at him. “You do,” he says, like it’s obvious.

It is.

Roger takes a long drink.

“Sorry,” a voice says, and then Brian is sliding into the booth next to him. He has his case with him, and he holds it awkwardly close to the table while he catches his breath. “How much time?”

“Not enough.”

“Until we go up,” Brian clarifies, exasperated.

“About two minutes,” Tim tells him. “You’re just on time.”

The look Brian gives him could be classified as heart eyes. Roger has to resist the urge to roll his own eyes at the sight of it.

“I’ve gotta go tune,” Tim continues. “Good turnout in here. It should be a fun show.”

He stands and heads toward the stage.

Brian makes to go after him but Roger catches his wrist before he can. When Brian doesn’t stop him he waits until Tim is lost in the crowd of bodies before turning it over in his hand and rolling his sleeve up.

_12:02:13_

_12:02:14_

_12:02:15_

“He seriously hasn’t said anything?”

Brian yanks his hand back and fixes his sleeve. Then he steals Roger’s beer.

“When did you pass the ten hour mark?”

Brian finishes a third of his pint before answering. “Last rehearsal,” he says. “I stopped into Kensington Market yesterday to use the loo and I ran into him by one of the stalls. That gave me an extra six minutes.”

Roger watches him for a long minute. “Are you sure it’s him?”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Who else could it be, Rog?”

“And he hasn’t said _anything?_ ”

“Maybe he just…” Brian shrugs. “I don’t know. He doesn’t believe in all that fate stuff, right? Maybe he just hasn’t checked his wrist or anything.”

“For two weeks?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t believe in this stuff.”

Roger stares at him. “You have to tell him.”

“I don’t have to do anything.”

“Brian.”

“Look, if he doesn’t want this then that’s not his fault. If he wants to ignore it that’s his right, okay?”

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

Brian raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, I’ll _maim_ him.”

“How about first you play this show, alright?”

And they play well. They play as well as they ever do, anyway. They aren’t perfect but Roger knows they could be one day, maybe. He knows they could be good.

Fuck soulmates. If fate’s real the only thing it’s telling him is that this works.

Maybe that’s just Brian and Tim that he’s seeing, though. They’re really all that he sees all night, stuck at the back of the stage as he is. They have chemistry, that much is undeniable. He can’t tell if it’s a recent thing or if he’s just only now noticing it, but they work well together.

The sweatbands he’s wearing cover up the numbers on his wrist. Honestly, thank god for that.

He can’t let his own sorrows get him down, though—not when every beat is landing right, not when Brian and Tim are weaving around each other and singing in perfect harmony, not when he feels this _good._ He’s still riding the high of it as they run through their last song and the lights go down, as Tim and Brian unplug and the three of them begin to pack up.

“Can I help you carry this out?” Tim asks, gesturing to Brian’s amp.

“Sure,” Brian smiles. The two of them head toward the corridor leading to the back lot.

Roger gets his kit broken down fairly quickly—just his snare and cymbals at this tavern since they have their own bass and toms—and then takes a moment and just looks out at the crowd that’s gradually depleting. A few people look back. They probably think it’s odd that he’s still here now that the spotlight is gone; that he stands over them like a performer but provides no entertainment.

He peels his sleeve back.

_00:00:01.642_

Not here, then. Whoever they are, they aren’t here.

“Roger.”

He looks up.

Tim and Brian are staring back expectantly.

“You okay?” Brian asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Tim frowns. “We’re packing up.”

“Yeah.” He grabs the case holding his snare and all but runs to the van before they can say anything. He manages to light a cigarette and open a beer before they even reach him, and that at least helps clear his head marginally.

“Well,” Brian says. “Good gig.”

“Yeah. It’s been a good night,” Roger nods. “You guys want to go out?”

“We’ve just been out.”

“You know what I mean. _Out_ out.”

Brian looks ready to agree, but Tim shakes his head shortly. “I can’t. Sorry, guys.”

“Oh,” Brian says. “That’s alright.”

“I’ve got something to tell you, though.”

Brian brightens.

“Well go on then,” Roger says, hiding a brittle smile by taking a long drink.

Tim grins at them. He looks like he’s about to rattle out of his skin with excitement, and Roger really has to hand it to him. Happiness looks good on him. He and Brian will be good together.

“I got an offer,” Tim says, smiling at them expectantly. “An offer with a band I’ve been following for a while now. Humpy Bong.”

Roger doesn’t have to look up to know that Brian’s face has fallen. He laughs humorlessly into the neck of his bottle. Fate, indeed.

“Humpy Bong,” Brian says flatly.

“They’re gonna be big!”

“ _We’re_ going to be big, Tim.”

“Brian, don’t,” Tim says, and when Roger looks at him he honest-to-god looks confused that they aren’t thrilled about this. “Don’t be upset about this. You know this was just for fun. We weren’t going anywhere—”

“Like hell I knew that.”

“Tim,” Roger says evenly, because Brian’s eyes look suspiciously wet and if Roger doesn’t start taking deep breaths very very soon Tim is going to end up losing two things he’d rather not part with, “don’t be daft.”

“I’m not—I’m not daft! They’re really going somewhere!”

“And we’re not?”

Tim’s wide eyes are answer enough.

Roger scoffs. “So what about us, then? What are we supposed to do? You really don’t give a shit?”

“I’m not your mother,” Tim says with a frown. “How is what you do my responsibility?”

“Roger, don’t,” Brian says. 

“No, I think we should talk about this.”

“That’s not your decision to make.”

“Talk about what?” Tim asks.

“Seriously?” Roger bursts out. “You’re seriously gonna pretend—”

“Roger,” Brian says sharply.

“What is it?” Tim asks again.

“Brian, so help me, if you don’t tell him—”

“Roger, shut up.”

“Brian, what is it?” Tim asks.

“You and I are soulmates!” Brian snaps.

Tim goes silent.

“The clock started three weeks ago. I know you’ve noticed by now. If you don’t want me or—or whatever then that’s fine—”

“I’ll kill you,” Roger mutters into his beer.

Brian shoots him a watery glare. “That’s _fine,_ ” he says more firmly, “but you can’t just leave without ever acknowledging it, okay? That’s not fair. You can’t just keep ignoring it like this. I mean, is that why you’re quitting? To get away from me?”

“That’s a shitty move, by the way,” Roger says, glaring at Tim. “I don’t care about your opinions on soulmates because honestly I don’t really believe in fate either, alright? But you can’t just ignore your soulmate until they go away. I mean for fuck’s sake, you guys are friends.”

“I don’t care,” Brian says. “It’s alright. I don’t mind. Just—say something.”

Tim looks back and forth between the two of them for a long minute. “Brian,” he says finally, “you and I are _not_ soulmates.”

Roger swears he hears Brian’s heart stop beating. “What?” he chokes out.

Wordlessly Tim rolls up his sleeve. His skin is perfectly blank.

Roger reaches over and takes Brian’s wrist gently, pulling his sleeve up until the numbers are revealed.

 _14:38:12_. Two more hours. Whoever it was saw the show.

They both stare at it for a few seconds, but the number doesn’t change. Roger wants to be blindsided by the sheer hurt and desperation on Brian’s face when their eyes meet, but the truth is it’s all much too familiar. He squeezes his hand instead. _Hurts, doesn’t it? Not knowing?_

Tim sighs. “I’m sorry. Whoever it is, it isn’t me. Good luck, Brian.”

“Yeah, fuck right off,” Roger says.

He doesn’t watch as Tim walks away, just uncaps another beer and hands it off to Brian with his free hand.

Brian takes it but doesn’t drink. “Now what?” he asks dully. “I guess this is over.”

“Says who?”

“Tim, apparently.”

Roger snorts. “Fuck Tim. We don’t need him.”

“We need a singer.”

“We can sing.”

“We need a bassist.”

“We’ll find one.”

“Roger,” Brian says. “Maybe it’s time to give this up. We’re good, but maybe he’s right. Maybe we should just—”

“Brian, shut up.”

“No, listen. Maybe we should—”

“No, Brian! Look!” He holds their still-clasped hands up so Brian’s wrist is visible.

_14:38:26_

_14:38:27_

_14:38:28_

_14:38:29_

Brian frowns. “What—”

The back door of the bar swings open. A man steps through.

“I’m Freddie,” he calls to them. “Are you Smile?”

 

The two of them are inseparable after that.

 

Roger wants to be bitter about it, too, but he can’t find it in himself. It’s good to finally see Brian happy, and he’d be lying to himself if he said he hadn’t fallen a little bit in love with Freddie as well. That’s just who Freddie is, maybe—incredibly charming and so much of a dreamer that he ends up sweeping everybody along with him. Roger likes that he makes Brian happy and he likes that Brian makes Freddie happy, too. It’s good to have friends who bring out the best in each other.

It does hurt a little to watch, though. Within a week the number on Brian’s wrist reads _142:31:21._ Within a month it’s a proud _612:39:34._ It’s February but he wears short sleeves everywhere anyway.

Roger wears the longest shirts he can find.

He starts bringing people home, too—anyone who’s willing and doesn’t mind the _00:00:01.642_ that hasn’t changed for three months now. They’ve lost Tim, gained Freddie and made their way through four other bassists at an alarming rate. London is big, but it isn’t that big. He doubts his soulmate is even here anymore.

Then he peels his sweatbands off in the back of the van after a gig and swears his heart stops beating.

_00:56:12.195_

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says.

“What’s that, darling?” Freddie asks.

“You’ve got to be _kidding me!_ ” he all but screams.

“Roger, calm down. You’ll hurt yourself.”

He should really listen to Freddie more often.

He stands up in fury but forgets to look down. His platform boot lands directly on a beer bottle that’s lying sideways just out of his fiend of vision. It rolls beneath his foot, the bumper of the van rushes up toward his face and everything goes dark.

 

He wakes up with his head in Freddie’s lap.

“You’re an idiot,” Freddie tells him.

“Where are we?”

“The hospital. Idiot.”

He sits up carefully. Spots dance behind his eyes for a moment before gradually clearing. “Fuck,” he says.

“Yeah. You hit your head pretty bad when you ate chrome. We thought you were dead, honestly.”

“Where’s Brian?”

“Checking you in. Want to tell me what happened?”

The show was good. The crowd was fine. Their bassist of the week sounded a bit shit, but that’s nothing new. And then he’d gone outside and caught sight of his wrist.

_His wrist._

He pulls his sleeve up quickly. The new number doesn’t greet him—no, it’s over an hour and fifteen minutes now, _an hour and fifteen minutes of wasted time,_ and the milliseconds are ticking up faster than his eye can even track them.

“My soulmate,” he gasps, whacking Freddie’s arm rapidly. “They’re here, they’re here.”

“Darling, nobody’s here,” Freddie says, gesturing to the empty waiting room. “It’s just us.”

“Then they just left. They’re nearby.” What’s his soulmate doing in the hospital? Are they hurt? Oh god, are they dying? He’s gonna throw up, or maybe that’s just the concussion talking.

Brian comes back into the room, frowning when he lays eyes on Roger hyperventilating in the corner. “Are you alright? Feeling any wooziness? Do you remember—”

“Brian,” he all but shouts, then can’t get his words together fast enough and just waves his arm frantically.

Brian’s eyes widen. “They’re—”

“A couple of uni kids were in here earlier,” Freddie says quickly. “Come on, they’re probably waiting for a cab.”

“It might not be them,” Brian reasons. “Rog, you shouldn’t run with a head injury—Roger!”

Freddie hurdles past him, Roger close on his heels.

They barrel through the door and skid to a stop at the waiting area, breath immediately clouding up in the chill. Roger looks around frantically, but there’s nobody standing with them. The tail lights of a cab disappear around the corner.

He looks down at his wrist. The clock has frozen again.

_01:17:06.034_

“Who counts in milliseconds?” Freddie asks skeptically.

“Someone with shit timing, apparently,” Roger mutters mutinously as Brian joins them. “Brian, I need you to take the van and follow that cab.”

Brian squeezes his eyes shut. “We don’t have the van,” he says. “We got an ambulance.”

The three of them stand there frozen for a minute.

_01:17:06.034_

“Fuck,” Roger says finally.

“At least this means whoever it is isn’t too badly hurt,” Freddie says optimistically. “Right? They were only in the hospital for, what? Twenty minutes? Surely it wasn’t that bad if they could just drive away.”

Brian nods encouragingly. “Yeah, I think it was just some stitches. I overheard the nurse talking.”

Roger feels nauseated again. Stitches. Jesus.

“It was a group, too,” Brian rushes to say. “A bunch of friends all came in together. Your soulmate was probably one of the people who was just there to be supportive.”

“Yes, certainly,” Freddie says. “Just helping a friend. I doubt they’re hurt at all, darling. It’s okay.”

“It’s fine, guys,” Roger says. “Really, it is.”

“You’re sure?” Freddie asks him. He ducks his head until he catches Roger’s eyes. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” He’s hit suddenly with a wave of exhaustion. All he wants to do is lie down. “Come on. Let’s get my head checked or whatever so we can get out of here.”

 

Bassist number five quits after Roger’s incident. Bassist number six lasts only two hours and then quits in shame when Roger turns him down for drinks.

Roger starts turning everyone down for drinks, in fact. He stops taking people home at all. He doesn’t have the stomach for it anymore, not now that he knows he’s spent over an hour in his soulmate’s company without even noticing it.

He didn’t realize it was possible to pine for someone you’ve never met.

It’s not shocking, now that he spends nearly all his time around two people who are so blatantly in love. They aren’t even particularly loud about it, and Roger thinks that might be the hardest part. He’s rarely seen them kiss. They rarely touch in public at all, and if Roger hadn’t seen their arms side by side and their clocks ticking up in perfect unison he isn’t sure he’d think they were together at all. It’s the little moments that give them away: Brian looking to Freddie for approval after every solo he plays, Freddie bumping his fist into the side of Brian’s in a way that could almost be accidental when they’re in public, the way they’re always aware of each other’s location even in a crowded bar.

It’s just little acts of familiarity and understanding, and that hurts more than anything.

Bassist number seven stays for two weeks before leaving for greener pastures.

Humpy Bong all over again, if you ask Roger.

Nobody does.

“Maybe it’s us,” Brian murmurs. His eyes look tired. “It can’t be them every time. Maybe we’re doing something wrong.”

The back of Freddie’s knuckles brush his shoulder as he passes him to get the kettle, and Brian relaxes infinitesimally. Roger gets to work making more audition flyers.

He didn’t realize it was possible to pine for someone you’ve never met, but here he is.

In the dead of night when he doesn’t know any better he lets his thoughts wander. He wonders what they look like, whoever they are. Their appearance doesn’t really matter much to him, but he’s curious all the same. He wonders what they smell like. He wonders what it’ll feel like to hold them, if they’ll be a solid weight against his chest or if they’d rather hold him that way. He wonders if they have hair long enough to tickle his nose or short enough to prickle against the skin of his neck.

He wonders if he should go prowl the bars just to work some steam off. Probably not. It would probably just make him feel sick again.

He looks at his number.

_01:24:01.928_

Seven minutes. That’s as long as his train ride home takes. He might’ve sat next to them and not even noticed.

He rolls over and pulls his pillow against his chest.

The thing is he knows he can’t let himself get wrapped up in this. He knows it’ll only hurt him. He can’t spend his whole life holding his breath. Maybe they’re meant to exist in parallel like this. Brian and Freddie were lucky, but not everyone can be so fortunate.

He needs to make his peace with the fact that they may never meet.

It’s with that mindset that he begins his day, and he’s so focused on it that he nearly forgets he has places to be. By the time he’s running down the stairs to the basement of the music building (where Freddie and his old band used to rehearse—ridiculous that Brian didn’t notice him there before, just like it’s ridiculous that they didn’t notice each other when their hands brushed in the bar that first night) he’s already nearly ten minutes late.

He bursts into their little studio panting.

Freddie raises an eyebrow as he watches Roger bend over and catch his breath. “Normally I’d goad that I’m not the latest here.”

“Sorry,” Roger breathes. “Sorry, all.”

“I swear we’re usually much more put together,” he hears Brian say.

“That’s a blatant lie,” Freddie retorts. “Consider that full disclosure, John. All we can do is try our best, I’m afraid.”

“Is that not all anyone can do?”

“Mmh, apparently,” Freddie says dryly. Roger looks up just in time to see Brian smiling at him fondly. “Roger, if you’d care to join us this is John Deacon, our newest prospective bassist. John, I swear Roger has better timing when he plays than he does when he has an appointment to make.”

“I’d hope,” John says just quietly enough that Roger thinks he could’ve imagined it, but his smile is so sweet that he’s easily forgiven. Roger isn’t sure what he couldn’t get away with when his smile looks like that, in fact. His eyes are all crinkly. It’s utterly charming.

When they shake hands his fingers feel very strong against Roger’s own. His skin is warm. Roger pointedly doesn’t think about the number on his own wrist.

“Alright, already coming after me,” Roger teases. “You’ll fit in well here. I’ll have you know I have excellent timing.”

“Isn’t that the kind of thing you’re supposed to show, not tell?”

“We’re already doing show and tell?” Roger gasps in mock delight.

His cheeks glow when he’s flustered. They’re begging to be pinched, or maybe just kissed feather-light and cradled between Roger’s palms. Fuck, he doesn’t even know at this point. All rational thought has gone out the window.

Despite his blush John manages a mirthful smile. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” he says as quietly as if he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble for it.

Behind him, Roger hears Freddie choke.

“Money where your mouth is, Deacon,” Roger grins, sitting down behind his kit and watching as John plugs his bass in and checks the tuning. When their eyes meet he lays down a simple drum roll, hard on the attack, and takes in the way John’s eyes light up. “How do you feel about improvising something?”

“You want to mess around?” John grins.

Roger laughs as he lays down a simple beat, and it only takes a measure for John to fill in the gaps. And it’s perfect, honestly. Just like that it’s everything he’s been looking for, and he can’t stop looking at him, and he can’t stop smiling, and apparently John can’t stop either as he slaps the strings sarcastically a few times before switching lines all at once. Roger moves with him without even thinking about it and it makes John laugh to himself.

He can’t even feel bad about forgetting Brian and Freddie are still in the room.

“Are you two done writing the next hit of the century, or do you want to actually run through some stuff?” Freddie asks loudly.

They both quiet quickly, though John looks significantly less cowed once he catches sight of Roger’s face. “Sorry,” he tells Freddie.

“No, don’t apologize,” Brian soothes. “That was good. I think you guys were onto something there, actually. You already sound really great together.”

“Well that makes it up to you then, doesn’t it, darling?” Freddie asks him.

Brian just smirks in return.

Roger has no idea how long the four of them play together that first day—certainly it’s longer than the average audition is supposed to go, though nobody seems to mind that. He hasn’t felt this way in a long time. It’s entirely possible that he hasn’t felt this way ever in his life. For the first time it’s like he’s moving in sync not only with his bassist but with Brian and Freddie as well. They were good before, but somehow the pieces have only just slotted into place.

They fit pretty damn well, too.

By the time it’s over he’s sweating and completely elated. He catches John’s eye one last time and grins at him.

“Well,” Brian said, “this went really well, I think.”

“Yeah?” John asks softly.

“Oh, definitely,” Roger says. “One hundred percent. I—”

“We’ll get back to you within the week, alright?” Brian says quickly.

Roger glares daggers at the side of his head.

“Oh,” John says. He closes his case and stands, and for the first time Roger gets a real look at him—all knobby knees and platform heels and subtle swagger—and then he’s heading to the door. “Definitely, yeah. I’ll be waiting.”

“Alright. Cheers, darling,” Freddie says with a little wave.

Roger smiles after him. As soon as the door shuts it turns into a frown. “If you guys don’t let him in—”

“Relax,” Brian says. “It’s a band decision, that’s all. We can’t very well make it in front of him.”

“Well what’s the decision, then?” Roger asks, peeling off his jacket.

“It’s a yes from me.”

“Definitely,” Freddie chimes in. “Come on, is that even a question? We sound brilliant together.”

Roger lets out a breath. “Thank god. I thought I was gonna have to blackmail you guys.”

“You really like him?”

“Did you hear him?” Roger asks incredulously. “He didn’t drop a single fucking beat, for one. That’s probably the most intricate bass playing I’ve ever heard, and that was on his _first day_. He barely even knows the parts yet and he’s already adding to them. Good additions, too!”

Freddie’s watching him with a tiny smirk. He doesn’t even care.

“We know each other’s cues well after playing together for so long, but he’s already picking up on them after just an hour or two! I mean, I swear he knows what I’m going to do before I even think it. And did you hear that ornamentation he was adding onto Keep Yourself Alive, too? That little flare he added onto the end of the third beat? It was perfect. Some sort of slide or something.” He raises his left arm and mimes the motion with his fingers.

Brian bursts out laughing—full on belly laughs, chest collapsed against his knees, tears in his eyes.

Roger frowns. “What?”

“Shut up,” he gets out between laughs, “and look at your arm, Rog.”

Roger looks down. The numbers are running up again, milliseconds just a blur. Three hours, thirty eight minutes, forty two seconds and counting.

That sets Freddie off laughing, too. “Go after him! Stop talking about him and go get him, you fool!”

Roger sprints out of the room, their laughter fading behind him.

He barrels down the hallway toward the stairs. He thinks he’s going to have to run up them too, but there John is at the bottom, turning around with a tiny smile as he spots Roger speeding toward him.

“Did I forget something?” he asks.

Roger skids to a stop in front of him and wordlessly holds out his arm. “Did you—”

John just laughs breathlessly. He puts his bass down and tugs his sleeve up, putting their arms side by side.

The numbers tick upward in unison.

“You have terrible timing,” John says.

“That’s not what you were saying five minutes ago,” Roger tells him. When he laces their fingers together John doesn’t complain; he pulls him closer instead, tugs him in until their hearts are beating together, and he’s not much taller than Roger but his platforms make it so Roger can tuck his face into his neck easily, and he radiates warmth, and he smells like vanilla, and Roger logs all these things away because finally he has _answers._ “You missed me how many times? I mean, the show I can understand.”

“I saw you at the bar but it was so crowded I had no idea how to find you. I left early. The band wasn’t that good.”

Roger pulls away to gasp in mock affront. “Excuse me?”

“Well, they were alright. The bassist was shit, though.”

“Oh. Well, we’re looking for a new one.”

“So I’ve heard,” John laughs.

“What about the hospital?”

John holds up his arm again and Roger gets a quick flare of satisfaction at seeing the numbers running on his wrist before he notices the still-healing scar on the side of his hand, running down toward his elbow. “I didn’t see them. The timer was bandaged up.”

“What happened?”

“I saw the number had changed and put my hand through a window. What’s your excuse?”

“I stood up in a fit of rage that I’d missed you, slipped on a bottle and knocked myself out.”

John stifles a laugh. “We’re made for each other.”

“That’s what they say.”

They spend a stupidly long moment just smiling at each other.

“Look,” Roger murmurs finally, “I know you just got out of an audition that ran way longer than any audition ever should, but do you have any plans after this? Would you maybe want to get something to eat? I know we’re soulmates and everything but can I woo you a little?”

“Woo me?” John laughs softly.

“Yeah, you know? Is that cheesy?”

“That’s horribly cheesy. I’d like that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. There’s an Italian place right around the corner, if you want.”

“That’s perfect.”

“Okay,” John murmurs. “Can I kiss you first?”

Roger feels dizzy. He nods.

John hesitates for a long moment, and in the end Roger isn’t really sure who moves in. All he knows is John tastes like vanilla and Chapstick and his lips are soft and warm and perfect. Everything around them fades away until it’s just this, just the two of them smiling against each other’s mouths.

Maybe that’s the trick of it all. Maybe that’s the point: not that their timers are ticking by but that they make each other forget that fact entirely, forget that time exists at all. They both understand the passage of time down to the millisecond but here in the basement of the music building they forget it entirely; later in a cheap Italian restaurant, pretending the boxed wine they’re drinking is Bordeaux until the place closes for the night, they’ll forget time is passing; months later, tangled up in each other, they’ll forget it’s been any time at all; years down the line it’ll feel like a lifetime and just a few days simultaneously, and then Roger will look down at his wrist and realize how many thousands of hours of this he’s been gifted.

Maybe that’s the trick: not that their time is moving, but that when they’re together none of that matters.

That’s all in the future, though. In the present John pulls away, Roger picks up his bass, and together they head off to the first in a lifetime full of dates.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello I’m lactose intolerant but I’m here to provide the cheesiness! I put off so much homework to do this so please let me know what you think!


End file.
